


To Call A Spade A...Heart

by koreIndian



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:32:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koreIndian/pseuds/koreIndian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spades Slick is waylaid by the vicissitudes of...LOVE. Will this SPADE learn how to master his HEART?</p><p> </p><p>  <i>((This is a suggestion-driven story. As such I need you, the reader, to tell me what to write. In your comments, place your suggestions for the plot of forthcoming chapters (Preface all such comments with the word "PLOT"). One PLOT suggestion will be selected per chapter. In addition, you may suggest THEMES and SHIPS. Label these separately, and I'll try to incorporate as many of these as possible.))</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	To Call A Spade A...Heart

**Author's Note:**

> _“Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more,_  
>  _another thousand, and another hundred,_  
>  _and, when we’ve counted up the many thousands,_  
>  _confuse them so as not to know them all,_  
>  _so that no enemy may cast an evil eye,_  
>  _by knowing that there were so many kisses.”_  
>  \--Catullus 
> 
> _“I think it is good plain English, without fraud, To call a spade a spade, a bawd a bawd”_  
>  \--John Taylor
> 
>  _“I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for.”_  
>  \--Oscar Wilde
> 
>  _“Come on heart of the cards... guide me!”_  
>  \--Yami Yugi

It is nighttime and you cannot sleep. You smell his scent in the air, everywhere. It is the sweet yet manly smell of lavender, lilac, and coriander suffused with a dash of newspaper ink; it drives you to the brink of madness and destruction. Yes! it carries off your thoughts, sublimes them; settles your unsettled mind and fixes it inexorably upon the object of your hopes and dreams, your groans, your prayers, your lamentations, your passions, your love. . . your lust: Droog. His name on your lips thick and full like dark chocolate. Droog. His name like precious mana sent from heaven to restore grace to fallen man. Droog. His name scintillating upon the vast firmament, spanning across the night like a necklace of stars wrapped around your tender neck, adorning you, choking you. Droog. Droog. Droog. You say his name thrice. And thrice more. Like Lesbia’s kisses is his name. You say it a thousand times, a hundred more, another thousand, and another hundred; and after you are done counting up the many thousands, you stare at yourself in the mirror, quaffing your battered visage, counting the stitches spanning your left eye. Once you have counted up all four hundred and thirteen intricate stitches, you emit a sigh drawn deep from your very being, and finally muster up the fragile courage required to get you to admit to yourself the truth you knew you knew all along: You love Diamonds Droog. You love him so much you want to die.

You cannot stay in your room any longer. Everything in here, literally everything, reminds you of him: your downy bed sheets remind you of the smooth, licentious textures of his silk gloves; your hefty oaken warchest, of his sleek marbled brawlsoleum; your billowing curtains, of the many newspapers that he is wont to take for his company upon an evening. Even your suit, a finely tailored article, reminds you of him. You consider for a moment- a mad, desperate moment- to cast off your raiment and run wild into the night, like King Lear upon the heath; perhaps then, with all your worldly possessions gone and your body fully striped, your heart too can be striped of the crippling desire it harbors for Diamonds. Perhaps then your inner turmoil will cease; perhaps then the ocean of your heart will recover from the storm of your anguish. But you put aside that liberating fantasy, and exchange it for a sobering reality: you have duties that must be fulfilled. You are going to make the Midnight Crew famous, or perhaps even...infamous. The weak hearts of your cowardly foes will tremble with primal fear when they hear your name. You will strike flat the thick rotundity of the world; you are the sound and the fury; you are the neighing steed, the shrill trump, the spirit-stirring drum, the ear piercing fife; you are all quality, pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war; you are the eyes of the abyss; you are the one who knocks. Or at least you will be, if you do not allow your heart to lead you astray. For now you must suffer through your insufferable love for that enigmatic man. But, thank the heavens, you don’t have to suffer it here! Nay, not here where even the creak of the floorboards remind you of him! You run out of your room and into the hall, knocking china and flower-vases on their sides. You now see that all your worries and woes were so insignificant. Why should you let yourself let a man rule you so! Why let him make you stain your man’s cheeks with womanish tears. No, run on, run on, young Slick! It is such ecstasy, this fragile freedom! But alas! this ecstasy was destined to be short-lived: for no sooner had you turned the corner, you had bumped straight into the svelte chest of your beloved Droog. With a gaze enrapt in a miasma of both style and ease, he looked through your eye and directly into your soul. And you stared back at him; you were flustered, furious, confused, fragile, but, above all, secretly and undeniably pleased. You love him so much you want to die.

> SS: Get the fuck out of my way  
> DD: You in a hurry buddy?  
> SS: “Buddy”? Who ya think ya talkin to, you slack-jawed lackey fuck.  
> SS: If you ever speak to me like that again I’ll cauterize your prostate with a hot butter-knife.  
> DD: Of course. Apologies, Boss.  
> SS: Now what are you doing out here snoopin around like a dirty cop?  
> DD: Oh! Nothing morally praiseworthy, be you assured. I endeavor as ever to keep my activities strictly criminal.  
> DD: Well, perhaps the present is not an entirely paradigmatic representation of my generally illicit disposition. Twas just out taking the evening’s stroll, as one does.  
> DD: You see, even a naturally athletic chap like myself needs to exercise occasionally.  
> SS: “Needs” huh?  
> SS: I’ll tell you what you need.  
> DD: What do I need, Old Boy?  
> SS: You need a machete jammed straight through your smug jaw.  
> DD: Ouch! You wound me Slick!  
> SS: Oh harhar, ain’t you clever.  
> SS: You think you’re smarter than me dontcha? Using all your fancy talk-words like “twas” and “occasionally”. It ain’t charming, “Old Boy”.  
> SS: It just makes me angry.  
> DD: Apologies. I’ll be sure to drop such excessive verbiage posthaste.  
> SS: (I love you so much I want to die).  
> DD: What was that boss?  
> SS: Nothing. Shut the fuck up.  
> 


End file.
